


Don't Believe in Miracles (Serendipity)

by CupcakeGirlA



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fake Reality, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Magic, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupcakeGirlA/pseuds/CupcakeGirlA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something wrong. Something seriously wrong. Good things didn’t happen this often to him and this out of the blue.</p><p>He had found a $20 bill on the sidewalk. The restaurant he had dinner at with his dad at gave him free dessert. His Jeep had managed to make it to the gas station even though it was practically on empty. He got an A on his Chemistry test.</p><p>And Derek was kissing him.</p><p>- from linksofmemories drabble Serendipity. This is an authorized expansion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linksofmemories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linksofmemories/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with gorgeous fanart by [foreverblue-navy ](http://foreverblue-navy.tumblr.com/)on tumblr. :)

 

He probably should have caught on faster. Figured it out sooner. But Stiles liked that good stuff kept happening to him. In his 18 years not that much truly great stuff had ever happened to him, and he’d honestly had more than his fair share of the really awful stuff. Between his mom’s early death, his dad’s job and poor health, his own ADHD induced social outcast status, Stiles has never gotten what he wanted. Not out of anything. Not from anyone.

Case in point: Lydia Martin. Stiles has loved her, wanted her, for literally years; for most of his childhood and all of his adolescence. His feelings for her were never going to go away. Not completely. He’d come to accept that they were also never going to be returned. He’d mostly moved on, in the only way that someone who had spent 7 years being completely obsessed can move on. He’d stopped following her around like a love sick puppy and instead turned his affections toward someone else. Someone who was, of course, equally unattainable. He was now crushing hard on Derek, and that crush was never going to lead anywhere. Ever.

Everything else could have been explained away as just a lucky day. But not this. Not Derek. It was a testament to how badly Stiles wanted him, how desperate he was to be wanted in return that he’d let it go on as long as he had.

Good things didn’t happen this often to him and never this out of the blue. He’d found a $20 bill on the sidewalk. The restaurant where he’d had lunch with his dad, had given him free dessert. His jeep managed to make it all the way to the gas station on practically empty. He’d gotten an A on his Chem test. And those were all perfectly plausible, extraordinarily good lucky day happenings. But not this. Not Derek kissing him.

Derek Hale was kissing him, holding him close, and holy shit he was just standing there frozen. He should really do something. So he did, bringing his arms up around the older man and kissing him back as best he knew how. He wasn’t even entirely sure how this had happened. One second they were just talking and the next Derek was kissing him like the world was about to end.

“Well that was a surprise,” Stiles mumbled against Derek’s lips once they’d parted.

“Hopefully a good one,” Derek said, smiling. And Stiles had decided instantly that he could seriously look at this particular smile forever.

“Definitely a good one,” Stiles had answered, only to be silenced by Derek’s mouth descending on his again and then again.

The thing about being kissed by Derek was how good it felt. It was amazing, he was amazing, and it had the incomprehensible ability to shut off Stiles’ brain like very little else could. That should have been the second clue. Because if Stiles thought about it, kissing Derek should have sped everything up, not slowed it down. It should have sent his mind into overdrive. Making him think about what would come after kissing. But the touching and the grinding and the coming that should have been on his teenage mind never manifested. He just sank down against Derek’s chest, hands gripping soft dark cotton tight and moaned little breathy moans whenever Derek’s lips pulled away from his long enough to let him breathe.

“Stiles,” Derek said, hands coming up to cradle the back of Stiles’ head. “Stiles, I love you,” Derek whispered, that same smile spreading across his face again, only this time accompanied by pinked cheeks and a wet mouth. Stiles had surged up against him, pressing closer, and kissing him hungrily. This was what he’d wanted for months. For Derek to want him back. For Derek to admit it, to make a move, to love him like he wanted to be loved. This was a revelation. A dream come true. A miracle.

Only Stiles didn’t believe in miracles. He’d stopped believing in them the day his mother died, frail and broken in a hospital bed. He’d prayed every day and every night for months that she would get better, sure that somehow she’d heal and come home again. That a miracle would happen and he wouldn’t lose her. But that hadn’t happened. She’d died. And he’d known then that miracles didn’t happen. The last two years had certainly reinforced that belief. And this is what wakes Stiles up. He sits back, pulling his mouth reluctantly away from Derek’s.

“You love me?” he asks, sounding young and even to his own ears, scared.

“Yes, of course I do,” Derek replied, sliding one hand down Stiles’ back to rest on his hip, tugging him closer. “Kiss me,” he demanded, ducking his head back toward Stiles’.

“Why?” Stiles asked, pushing away from him enough to avoid the kiss. Derek blinked at him, a quizzical expression spreading across his face, thick eyebrows drawing together.

“What do you mean? Why? You’re a good kisser!” Derek laughed then, bright and happy. Like Stiles had never heard him laugh before.

“No. Why do you love me? You didn’t before.”

“Of course I did. I have for a while. I love you because… I love you. I’m in love with you. What else is there to say?” Derek asked. Stiles eyed him suspiciously, taking in every detail from his perfectly styled hair, to impossible ever-changing eyes and scruffy beard. The scruffy beard that Stiles hadn’t even felt when they’d kissed. He reaches up to touch the side of Derek’s face, sees, feels the rough hair there, tries to ignore how Derek turns into his hand, pressing a kiss to the palm of Stiles’ hand.

Panic starts to set in, his heart rate increasing with a sudden shot of fear. Reaching up with his other hand, Stiles touches his lips. Lips that he knows should probably be puffy, the skin around them red and tender with beard burn. But his lips feel normal, his chin and cheeks perfectly fine. He pulls his hand out of Derek’s grip, pushing away from him completely.

“Who are you?” he asks. Derek looks at him in surprise, confusion plain on his face.

“I’m Derek, the guy who’s in love with you. Who else would I be?” Derek asks. Stiles turns away from him, looking out the window of the Camaro, eyes darting from person to person walking down the street enjoying the perfect spring sunshine. And all of them much too familiar. His first grade teacher Ms. Mays, the nurse who’d wrapped his ankle that one time he’d nearly broken it when he was eight, the man who ran the local deli, Mr. Porter the mailman, Scott’s Dad. Scott’s Dad? The man who’d disappeared six years before and hadn’t shown himself since?

“What is this place?” he asks. He reaches for the handle, yanking on it hard, and pushing the door open. He launches himself out of the car, too fast to be caught by Derek’s grabbing hand. That should have been clue number three. It’s only once the sun is beating down on him that he remembers that it’s supposed to be January.

“This isn’t real! None of this is real! Let me go!” he shouts, staring up at the cloudless sky. “NOW!” he screams. Everything goes dark.


	2. The Awakening

That witch. That fucking witch! 

He wakes up in a hospital room. His dad is there, and Scott. It’s been seven days. Seven days since the witch had, apparently, cursed him, and he’d fallen unconscious. He’d been in a coma this whole time. His dad is so relieved to see Stiles conscious and alive that he’s moved to actual tears. And yes, that makes Stiles feel horribly guilty. It’s when he’s stepped out to make a few phone calls and spread the news of Stiles’ waking up, that Scott pounces. 

Scott peppers him with questions, asks him what it was like. And what had happened. Stiles tells him about being in a dream world. About everything being too perfect. Too good. Scott frowns, asks him what he means. Stiles shakes his head. 

“Things happened there that would never happen in real life.” Something must bleed through into his tone, because Scott frowns at him again, deeper, and shakes his head. 

“Whatever it was you dreamt must have been really bad,” he says. Stiles winces. 

“No, that’s the thing. Everything I dreamt was too good. It was too good to be true. Like nothing ever went wrong. It was too perfect to be real. And things…” Stiles sinks back against his plastic covered pillows and turns to face the window, watching white clouds sail past on a grey blue winter sky. “Things were so nice that part of me didn’t want to wake up,” he whispers. Scott moves closer, reaching out to loosely grip Stiles’ ankle through the sheets. 

“Well I’m glad you did. We’re all glad you did. I’d understand if you want to take a break from everything after this. I mean, your Dad probably won’t let you out of the house for anything but school for at least a month. If you want to take a backseat to all the… wolfy business I’d get it,” Scott explains. Stiles shakes his head. 

“You all wouldn’t last two weeks without me,” Stiles replies, forcing a smile. Scott laughs, and it’s like bright friendly warmth spreading through the too white room. 

“It’s a good thing you were only unconscious for one then, huh?” That’s when the doctors descend. 

Stiles isn’t grounded. But his dad hovers. A lot. And Stiles isn’t exactly feeling completely himself yet, so he lets him. He avoids pack related stuff for a while. Not because he’s swearing off anything and everything supernatural, but because he can’t face Derek. Not after what he’d dreamed. 

Stiles knows it’s stupid. He couldn’t control what happened in his magical coma any more than he could control a regular dream or a nightmare. But somehow it feels like an embarrassing violation. And honestly, it hurts to imagine seeing Derek after what he’d experienced in the spell induced coma. He wanted it to be real, but he also wanted it to be realistic, and what had happened as a result of that damn spell had been neither. He doesn’t think he could see Derek in person right now, and handle the lack of happiness, the lack of love in his expression. Stiles might be a little fucked up about it. Maybe. A bit. 

As best they can figure the witch had considered Stiles a threat. 

“She probably sensed the mountain ash on you,” Deaton later explains. Stiles has spent the last two years becoming the pack’s “magical item wielder,” and good God does he need a cooler position title than that one. He isn’t innately magical himself, isn’t a witch or a warlock or anything that extreme, but he has an affinity for using already magical items and substances. He is good at using his belief to trigger them into action. “It was your belief that was keeping the dream going, Stiles. As long as you believed it was real, it was. The moment you started doubting, and realized it wasn’t reality, you triggered the end of the spell.” Stiles kicks his legs against the leg of the metal exam table. He wants to pick Deaton’s brain, ask him questions about where the dream had come from. About the people in it, and the truth or lies in what he’d experienced. He wants to know if it’s an after effect of the spell that he keeps dreaming about it, and waking up gasping for air in a panic, scared out of his mind that he’s still stuck there, in that non-reality. That he waits anxiously every morning for bad things to happen, to trip on a loose shoelace, to stub a toe, for Lydia to ignore him in the halls. Anything to prove that the dream is really over. That he’s back in reality. But he’s too aware of Scott a few rooms down the hall, feeding the dogs their dinner. Deaton closes his book and set it to the side. “I don’t see any lasting effects of the spell on you. I think you’re in the clear. Try not to piss off any more witches though.” Stiles forces a laugh and hops down off the table. 

“You know I don’t go looking for trouble. Trouble...” Deaton cut him off finishing the sentence. 

“Finds you. I know, Stiles. But you’re more susceptible than most, with the crowd you run with. Just be careful.” Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes and nods his head instead. “Now, do you need any more mountain ash or are you good for a while yet? It takes a few weeks to get more shipped in, so if you’re low I should order some soon.” Deaton turns away then, shuffling bottles and boxes around in the cabinet against the far wall. Stiles sighs. 

“Nah, I’ve got plenty. Do you think you could get some more solid lengths brought in soon? I was thinking maybe we could shore up some of the defenses around town. A nice new fence for Mrs. McCall’s garden might be a good idea.” Deaton shoots him a look over his shoulder. 

“I’ll see what I can do. Now will you get him out of here? He wasn’t even supposed to come in today,” Deaton asks. Stiles looks toward the door, just as Scott’s sheepish smile appears around the corner. 

“Fed the dogs. That dachshund puppy is rejecting her chow again. Might have to try another brand,” he offers. He looks from Stiles to Deaton and back again, expression expectant. 

“Thank you, Scott. I think that’s all for the day,” he closes the cabinet with a hard thump and gives Scott a significant look. 

“Sure. Thanks, doc,” Scott says tossing his arm over Stiles’ shoulder and guiding him toward the door. “I’m glad that nightmare of yours left no lasting injuries.” 

Stiles doesn’t know how to tell him it had, they just weren’t the kind that could be seen by the human eye, enhanced werewolf senses or not.


	3. The Confronting

Stiles makes it almost three weeks before finally seeing Derek in person for the first time. And of all places, it’s at the grocery store. Stiles is in produce, searching through wilted heads of lettuce and piles of grapefruit to try and find something healthy for his dad to take in his lunches the next week when he feels eyes on him. He looks up and there’s Derek on the other side of the island, combing through the mountains of oranges and tangerines, which Stiles happens to know Derek hates on principal for being “too citrusy.” It’s a wonder the man doesn’t have scurvy. Stiles suspects it’s his supernatural wolfiness that lets him get away with it. Stiles blinks at him for a moment, dumbstruck. Derek looks at him sort of awkwardly, and reaches for a produce bag, which he starts to quickly fill with fruit. 

“Hi,” Stiles says. Derek glances up at him again. 

“Hey,” he replies, filling the bag to near bursting and starting to tie it off with a twist-tie. Stiles stifles a laugh, and Derek looks up at him startled. 

“The checkout person might find it difficult to know what to charge you when you hand them a bag filled with half oranges, half tangerines, and a lemon,” he quips, looking pointedly at the bag. Derek startles, looking down and sure enough, the bag was filled with a hodge-podge of various fruit. He shakes his head and dumps the bag out. Stiles hides a laugh and pushes his cart around the island to help him sort it out. Together they get the fruit put back, and Stiles takes over, filling a bag with oranges for Derek, and handing it over. “I don’t know why you’re even buying these. You hate them,” he murmurs, setting them down in Derek’s basket and turning away. 

“They’re for Isaac. He likes them,” Derek says and Stiles nods, gripping the bar of his cart to steer it away. “I killed her,” Derek blurts and Stiles freezes. He spins quickly, brow furrowed, looking around frantically to make sure no one has overheard them. He steps closer. 

“What the fuck!? Derek! You’ve already been dragged down the sheriff’s station and questioned in two murder investigations, you can’t go running around blurting out shit like that. We’re in public!” he hisses. Derek raises one eyebrow at him. 

“And whose fault was it that I was a suspect in either case?” he asks. Stiles glares at him. 

“Are you still harping on that? It was like two years ago!” he snaps. Derek looks away sighing audibly and clearly fighting not to roll his eyes. 

“I’m aware. I just wanted you to know that she’s taken care of,” Derek scoops up his basket of groceries and starts to walk away. Stiles reaches out and grabs him by the elbow, stopping his forward momentum. 

“The witch? You didn’t have to do that,” Stiles says, avoiding Derek’s eyes. 

“She used a spell on you. We didn’t know what it was doing. We thought you were going to die. Of course I had to do it. We’re allies aren’t we?” Derek says quietly. Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down hard, just to feel the sting. 

“I thought we were more than just allies. But you could have gotten hurt. It wasn’t worth the risk.” 

“You’re more than worth the risk, Stiles. I thought if I killed her it would stop the spell. Her magic wouldn’t be fueling it anymore,” Derek explains. “But it didn’t.” He looks vaguely annoyed by the omission. Stiles shakes his head. 

“Her magic wasn’t fueling the spell. I was.” Derek’s head jerks up at that, the confusion clear in the furrow of his brow and the slack of his jaw. 

“What? How?” he asks. Stiles sighs, looking around the grocery store. People are starting to stare. 

“Come on, let’s check out. I’ll tell you outside.” 

Which is how Stiles finds himself sitting in the jeep with Derek Hale in some weird mirror image of his magical spell induced coma dream. Only this time it’s him in the driver’s seat, instead of Derek behind the wheel of the Camaro. And you know, the world they’re in isn’t distractingly perfect. That’s the only thing that makes it bearable. That the sky is overcast, and there’s a car alarm going off in the back of the lot, at least half of the faces walking by are strangers, and Derek is quiet and stiff where he sits beside him, not happy and open. 

“Explain,” Derek says, staring out the front window. Stiles grips the steering wheel with both hands. 

“Dr. Deaton says it was me that was keeping the spell going. That my belief that it was real, was what was maintaining it. As soon as I started to doubt, it lost its hold on me. When I realized it wasn’t reality it fell apart.”

“So killing her was for nothing?” Derek asks. Stiles shrugs. 

“Who knows? She might have just come back and done something worse to me the next time. She was evil, Derek. She wanted us all dead. I was just the first of her many targets.” Stiles turns to lean against the door and watches Derek as his jaw clenches, and his gaze hardens, eyes still focused on some part outside the front windshield. “She was a threat to all of us. To the whole town.” 

“You’re right,” Derek says with a nod, turning to look at Stiles. “You ok now?” he asks. Stiles nods. 

“I’m fine and dandy. Good as new. 100% back and ready for action.” Derek must hear the lie, because his eyes narrow. 

“Stiles,” he prompts. Stiles shakes his head. 

“I’m good, ok? I just keep having these dreams. And when I wake up I’m not sure if I’m really awake or not? It’s probably a completely normal and natural reaction to having your head played with like mine was. It’s no big deal. I’ll get over it.” 

“What kinds of dreams?” Derek asks, turning to face Stiles on the seat more fully. Stiles shrugs. 

“Good dreams. Nice dreams. Amazing stuff happening to me that I know will never really happen. That’s what she did, you know. She put me in a world where everything happened that I wanted to have happen. I should have known it was a dream the minute things started to go my way. Because they never do in real life,” Stiles lets out a broken sort of laugh, and scrubs at his face with both hands. “Let’s just move on. I don’t want to keep thinking about it. Thinking about it and remembering just makes it worse.” He picks at the seam of his jeans, and when he speaks again it’s soft and sad. “It was cruel to send me there. To let me have what I wanted just so I could wake up and lose it.” 

“What could you have possibly wanted that you can’t have here in reality?” Derek asks. Realization comes over his face. “Your mom?” he breathes looking quickly away. Stiles visibly flinches. 

“No. Why would you…?” he stops himself, and looks away too. “No. No, I grew out of dreaming about having her back a long time ago. It was something… else.”

“Ahh… Lydia?” Derek asks. Stiles frowns, rolling his eyes. 

“No. Not Lydia. Why does everyone think I’m still insane about her? She’s made it very clear it’s never going to happen. It wasn’t her, ok?” Stiles asks, and his voice is a touch frantic, as he scrubs a hand through his hair. He focuses on watching person after person walk by. And it takes Derek moving closer to realize there’s a tear sliding down the side of his face. He sniffs once, wiping at it, and scowling in reaction. 

“Hey, calm down,” Derek says. Stiles glances at him quickly and Derek looks strangely worried, his brow furrowed, and expression concerned. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles answers, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles gone white. 

“You’re clearly, not fine. You’re angry and sad. You’re crying, Stiles. You’re not fine!” Derek argues. And that’s what pisses Stiles off. 

“Keep your wolfy little nose out of my complex emotional state! I’ve been through an emotional trauma. My entire head has been violated and manipulated. I had my inner most desires used against me. I’m sorry if it’s taking a little while to get over!” Stiles snaps. Derek falls backward to slump in his seat and Stiles takes deep breaths to calm down. 

“If you talked to someone about what happened, you might be able to get over it a lot faster,” Derek offers. 

“Oh, like you’ve talked to us about Kate. We’re not stupid, Derek. It’s fairly easy to see something happened between you too. But I don’t see you opening up about it,” Stiles replies. Derek goes still beside him, tensing all over. Stiles has a flash of pure mortification and he closes his eyes, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. He bangs it there a few times, feeling his neck, cheeks, and ears flush bright red with horror filled embarrassment. “Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m sorry Derek. Forget I said that,” he says, turning to look at Derek. 

It’s Derek’s turn to stare morosely out the windshield at passing shoppers. 

“You’re not the first person to be manipulated and used for someone else’s ends, Stiles. And you won’t be the last.” He pushes the jeep door open, and closes it, turning back and ducking down to look at Stiles through the open window. His face is like stone when he speaks. “But hey, at least, when it happened to you, nobody died. I’ll see you around.” And with that he’s gone. Stiles watches him walk away, hands shoved deep in his leather jacket’s pockets. A lone bag of oranges left sitting in the floorboard of Stile’s jeep. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Stile says to himself, slamming one hand against the roof of the jeep with each loud exclamation. He ignores the squawk of outrage Mrs. Harriman from three doors down gives as she hurries past his car to go into the grocery store. Great. That’s just what he needs. As he starts the car he begins to mentally prepare himself for first: the talking too he’s sure to get once Mrs. Harriman gets a hold of his Dad, and second: the huge ass apology he owes a certain Alpha werewolf. “God,” Stiles says out loud to himself, pulling to a stop at a red light, “I can be such an asshole.”


	4. The Reimagining

It takes Stiles two days to go and see Derek. Part of that time was spent gathering up the nerve to go but to be fair he’d have gone earlier if on Saturday his Dad had been “concerned” by his “apparently violent behavior” at the grocery store and had decided he wanted to “spend some quality time together.” They’d spent all of Sunday watching football games together and not talking about their feelings. 

It had been kind of nice actually. 

But then there had been homework to do Sunday night and school all day on Monday, followed by lacrosse practice, and that night was the first time Stiles had managed to get away from everyone and everything to head over to Derek’s apartment. 

When Derek opens the door it’s to Stiles holding a bag of oranges, and wearing a hesitant smile. Derek rolls his eyes and steps back, letting him come inside. Stiles holds out the fruit. 

“You forgot this,” he says, dropping it into Derek’s hands. Derek catches it like the bag weighs nothing and takes it to the kitchen to deposit it on the counter. He pauses there, with his back to Stiles for a moment, before taking a deep breath and turning back around, one eyebrow raised in question. 

“Is that all?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back to rest his weight on the counter. Stiles tries desperately not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms bulge when he does that. Now is so not the right time. Never is the right time.

“And to say I’m sorry,” Stiles says, and his misery and legitimate regret must show in his voice because Derek drops his arms and stands up straight again, taking a step closer. Stiles looks away his fingers finding the edge of the table, fidgeting, always fidgeting. “I shouldn’t have said what I said in the car. About... about her. I don’t know what happened, and honestly it’s none of my business. I had no right to even bring her up. It was completely unfair. And you’re right, what you’ve been through is way worse than what happened to me. So I’m sorry.” He looks up at Derek once he’s done talking and Derek’s much closer than before. 

“I don’t talk about her, because it would make no difference either way. She’s dead. Peter killed her, so I can’t get retribution. All of my family is dead. Gone. So I can’t get forgiveness.” He turns away from Stiles then, only to turn back around to face him again, leaning back against the edge of the counter. His face is closed off, pained, and it makes Stiles feel like shit. “But you’re different. You like to talk,” Derek says with a sudden smirk. 

“If that’s your way of calling me a loud mouth, than I take offense!” Stiles snaps back, and gets a full on chuckle from Derek for his troubles.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” he sobers a little. “I just meant that you like to talk. You talk all the time. Maybe if you talked about it… it could help. Scott’s worried about you you know. Everyone is. Have you tried talking to him?” Stiles shakes his head. 

“No. Not possible. He would never understand,” Stiles looks away studying the canisters lined up along the back of the counter. They’re marked Flour and Sugar but he knows the one on the end, the bigger one has medical supplies, and the smaller one mountain ash. He knows because he put them there. He snaps back to attention by Derek’s sudden move to the fridge. He pulls free a bottle of beer, and snaps the top off with one long claw, tilting back his head and guzzling down half the bottle in one long pull. Stiles watches his throat work, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow and feels his own mouth go dry. He looks quickly away again, and then rolls his eyes dramatically to cover the motion. “I don’t know why you drink that shit. It can’t get you drunk so there’s no point but the flavor, so why buy the cheapest crappiest beer they sell?” he asks, reaching in to grab one for himself. Derek’s there a second later, pulling the beer from Stiles long fingers, and crowding him up against the fridge. 

“That’s not for you,” he says setting the bottle on the counter, and taking another long drink from his own, finishing it easily and tossing it into the bin (a blue recycling bin that had been Lydia’s contribution) in the corner behind Stiles. He scoops up the other bottle and turns away, leaving the kitchen and heading for the long blue couch in the main space of the loft. 

“I really do want to know. Why do you drink that crap?” Stiles asks, sitting down on the other end of the couch and crossing his arms in his lap. He will not fidget. Derek sighs, looking put out, face going bland and bored again. It’s vaguely infuriating. 

“Follow this logic, if you can,” Derek says and Stiles scoffs loudly. “The higher the alcohol content, the harder it hits a werewolf’s system, the more massive and immediate the counter reaction, and the less drunk it makes you. Drink hard liquor, feel nothing. Drink a lot of low grade shit like this, it sneaks up on your system, and isn’t metabolized as quickly. The body doesn’t register it as a threat so it’s not dealt with as one.” That startles a laugh out of Stiles. 

“Tell me you haven’t explained this to any of your betas,” he prompts. Derek just smiles at him, wiggles his eyebrows and then turns back to his beer. He swigs again, and then tips the bottle back, lips closing around the bottle as he finishes the bottle in one long sucking gulp. This time, Stiles can’t help but stare fixedly on the way Derek swallows and hope that Derek doesn’t notice. Derek notices. 

He freezes, lips pulling slowly away from the bottle with a wet sucking pop. He folds his lips into his mouth, licking the last few stray drops of cheap beer away from them, and letting his eyes slide back to look at Stiles’ flushed face. 

“I think I’m going to go,” Stiles says jumping up and heading for the door. He really should know better than to run from a wolf. 

Derek has him by the wrist a second later, stopping his forward momentum and pulling him gently around to face him. He’s standing close, closer than he usually would. 

“You know you can talk to me,” Derek prompts, brow furrowed. “I’d hoped we gotten to a point over the last two years that you can consider me a friend.” Stiles closes his eyes, unable to look at him. “Stiles?” Derek says quietly, hesitantly. That’s when Stiles kisses him. 

He surges forward, pressing his mouth to Derek’s before Derek can back away, mouth open and eager, and wet. He expects Derek to push him away, expects to be rebuffed, and part of him almost hopes he will be. It’d be proof this wasn’t another magical nightmare parading around as a dream. 

But Derek doesn’t push him away, he breathes in deep through his nose, inhaling the scent of Stiles, and want, and sex, and arousal. He grips the back of Stiles’ shirt, yanking his whole body closer, and holding on tight. He kisses back eagerly, aggressively, twisting one hand tighter around the fist of cotton t-shirt he’s gripping, the other sliding up Stiles back to cup the back of his head, guiding it just a little to a better angle, One that lets Stiles jaw fall open wider, lets Derek’s tongue dive deeper. 

Stiles has one more fleeting thought to it being too perfect, a small surge of fear and arousal spiking through his system before fading away as he gets lost in the moment, his brain for once seeming to settle down on its own. 

What happens next is not perfect perfection. It’s not flawless. Derek’s hands grip too tight, and his stubble burns across Stiles cheeks and throat and inner thighs. His rhythm is just a beat off from what Stiles wants it to be, so he has to guide Derek with gripping knees, and clutching hands to move just a touch faster and harder until he gets it just right. But it’s good. It’s amazing and unbelievable and Stiles finds himself arching up off the bed, pressing hips and mouth up into Derek's dick and kiss like he can’t get enough. He twists, getting one knee up around Derek’s waist and he comes loudly with the change in angle crying out against Derek’s tongue and feeling Derek come too. 

Afterward they’re sweaty and sticky, and his ass his sore, so Stiles is fairly sure it’s real, not a trick. But some small part of him still wonders, because stuff like this does not happen to Stiles Stilinski. Not normally.

“You’re thinking again. No thinking until after the shower, and we’re not getting up for that for a while yet, deal with it,” Derek orders. Stiles smirks at the exposed beams in the ceiling. 

“Derek?” he asks. He feels and hears Derek shift beside him, getting more comfortable. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, letting one hand slide around Stiles waist to tug him closer. 

“Tell me you don’t love me,” he orders. It’s just to make sure, he tells himself. Just to verify that this is real. But Derek hesitates. 

“I don’t think now is the appropriate times for that type of discussion. It’s a little early don’t you think, to be breaking up?” Derek asks, amused. Stiles sighs, shaking his head. 

“No, tell me you don’t love me, so that I know this isn’t a dream. If it was a dream everything would be perfect and you’d say the opposite. So just tell me,” Stiles explains, turning into the curve of Derek’s body, head pillowed on his own arm. He looks at Derek with such a serious expression that the grin flickers off of Derek’s face in reaction. 

“You’re being serious?” he asks, brow furrowing. Realization follows the confusion rapidly. “That’s what you dreamt wasn’t it? When you were in the coma? This? Us?” he asks. Stiles nods, closing his eyes in sudden exhaustion. Derek’s arm curls around him tighter, hand sprawled flat across the middle of Stiles’ back. 

“I can’t say that I don’t love you,” Derek whispers, voice soft, and Stiles’ eyes fly open, “because I won’t lie to you. I care about you, Stiles. I have for a while. For a long while. So what I will say is that I’m not perfect. And neither are you. And us, being together, is never going to be perfect. But it’s real. And it’s happening, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that what happened before never happens again.” He says it with such conviction that Stiles actually fully believes him, and he feels all the remaining tension drain out of his system, followed by relief, and happiness, and comfort. 

“Ok. You just have to try really hard to not be too mushy or positive. It gets my mind going to bad places.”

“Deal. No romance, or pet names, or gooeyness,” Derek says with a decisive nod. Stiles’ face breaks into a big grin. 

“Orgasms are good though. We can both cause plenty of those,” Stiles offers. 

“As long as they’re not too perfect you mean?” Derek teases. Stiles laughs and nods. “So if I say, made you work for it, or drew it out so long you were begging for it, or made you come so many times you felt like your dick was going to fall off, that would all be ok?” Derek asks. 

“Oh more than ok, I imagine,” Stiles says, tilting his head up for Derek’s kiss. 

 

It’s late the next day when Stiles swings by the supermarket for more milk. He doesn’t understand why they keep running out so fast. He’s stepping off the curb, a bag in one hand holding the carton of 1% milk, the other hand clutching a king size Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup when he spots the green bill skidding and flipping across the parking lot pavement, carried by a breeze. He steps forward quickly and stomps on it, transferring the candy to the other hand to pick-up the 20 dollar bill. He stares at the front of it with wide eyes, feeling his stomach drop down to his knees as terror swirls through his system. He’s so focused on staring at the money that he almost doesn’t feel the tap on his shoulder. 

He jerks around, and looks down at Mrs. Harriman’s grumpy wrinkled face, eyes squinting at him from behind bifocals. 

“That’s mine, young man. Flew right out of my hand,” she holds out said hand to Stiles, and he hands it over to her with a shocked expression. She smiles at him widely, and reaches up, pinching his cheek. “Such a good boy,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll be telling your father about this,” she adds, turning and walking away, and Stiles lets himself collapse to sit right there on the curb, the laughter bubbling out of him in quick sharp gasps, that leave him breathless. He slowly calms down, and reaches for his phone, dialing as he stands up and heads for the jeep. Derek answers just as he’s climbing inside. 

“Hey, tell me again how you can’t say you don’t love me?” he asks, stuffing the last peanut butter cup into his mouth, and grinning widely at himself in the rearview mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to finish. That was mostly because of IRL reasons (my mom died in mid-April) and a touch of writer's block. I want to thank Erin and J and Beth for being great inspiration (Erin), encouragement (J and Beth), and beta/graphic design magicians (just Beth). You're all the best. Thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> Written with Erin's permission, based on a drabble of the same name posted on her tumblr account [here](http://erinpond.tumblr.com/post/46126694742/serendipity) and [here ](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/1362257) on ao3. 
> 
> Some of the dialogue/descriptive language is taken directly from said drabble. But again, this was written with her explicit permission, and I'm giving her full credit for her words/idea.


End file.
